Falling Feathers: My Poetry Book

Apocalyptic Proportions

Our pale, sickly complexions,
Truly Death's conceptions.
A broken will, and muddied face,
Stares back from distorted reflections.

All this life is lost to War,
A restless Horseman still taking more.
The guns and fighting, what is it for?
A pointless reason, as always.

The fields may as well be salted:
Sustenance is always sparse.
Is it Allah that causes our suffering?
Or does Famine enjoy this farce?

The churches, broken, are desecrated,
Our God can't save us now.
This Pestilence is rotten to the core,
We fall to our knees, dead, in a bow.

Death does not discriminate;
War's bloodlust, we can never sate;
Famine, it doesn't differentiate;
Pestilence kills, and forever berates.